


8 Days, 5 Hours, 42 Minutes, and 39 Seconds

by PiecesOfScully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, MSR, angsty angst, pre revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiecesOfScully/pseuds/PiecesOfScully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hated to admit it, but it took over a week for it to really sink in that she was gone.  8 days, 5 hours, 42 minutes, and 35 seconds to be exact. 36 seconds. 37.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mulder

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta Kristin. You beautiful starfish, you.

He hated to admit it, but it took over a week for it to really sink in that she was gone. 8 days, 5 hours, 42 minutes, and 35 seconds to be exact. 36 seconds. 37. 

He’d spent the 7 nights before on the couch in the living room, just as he had for the odd number of months leading up to her walking out the front door, suitcase and duffel in hand. On the 8th night, he finally made his way to their bed, his back begging for a bit more softness to ease his weary bones and knotted muscles. The room was dark with only a glint of moonlight peaking through the slit of the heavy curtains he’d insisted on hanging for the long nights of research that quickly turned into far too bright mornings. Those mornings she was already 2 hours into her shift at the hospital, and he had just laid down, shifting restlessly while trying to will his brain to turn down the volume of his thoughts. Each morning before sleep he made sure to have a fresh pot of coffee and the Bugs Bunny ‘What’s up, doc?’ mug that he bought her in Small Town, Nebraska waiting for her in the kitchen, hoping that the act was enough effort to keep her content. Enough to say I still love you. I’m still here. Each afternoon when he finally woke, he would wash the used mug and place it back in the cupboard for the next morning. 

That night, the 8th night, the bed was still made with military precision. She must have pulled the covers taut and mitered the corners of the sheets before she carefully placed a handful of outfits and undergarments into her bag. He quickly went to the bathroom to wash up before bed. As he was brushing his teeth he noticed with a twinge of sadness that her body wash was gone. It was the cheap pink bottle of Caress that she normally used as a backup. She had stopped splurging on the expensive wash when she started working longer hours, coming home less and less. When their bed became more of a piece of decoration. When she thought he wouldn’t notice. 

He did notice. He just didn’t know how to fix it, they were already so far gone. 

He glanced around the too quiet, too empty bedroom to note what else she had taken with her. The ratty sweater that she wore on her evenings at home, the old Breakfast at Tiffanys novel with the worn down edges, the off-white slippers that had sat at the foot of the bed. His finger dragged across the small area on the dresser where her favorite perfume had been placed just days before. The bottle had been unmarked, while the few others that had sat around it were stamped with their brand. He lifted a few of the bottles to his nose, none of them smelling of her. He pulled open the top drawer to find all of her night-shirts still folded nicely in their place, knowing his Knicks t-shirt and a few other favorites were safe with her miles away. Slowly, he crossed the few feet to their closet, and opened the door. Her suits still hung where she’d placed them, so small in comparison to his that hung just inches to the right. Her bathrobe still draped from the small hook that she had installed after complaining about the lack of space. 

He trailed his fingers down the worn blue sleeve, the fabric soft to the touch. Gently, he lifted it from its hook, and brought it to his face. The stubble on his cheeks and chin pricked and pulled as he nuzzled his face into her scent. He inhaled deeply, balling as much of it into his hands as possible. He stumbled backwards onto their bed, swiftly slipping under the covers on her side. A tear slid gracefully from his face to her pillow, though he tried to will himself not to cry. He cradled most of the robe to his chest, a small portion tucked just under his chin. Her scent lingered closely as a sob finally broke free from his chest and escaped his mouth. 38 seconds. 39.


	2. Scully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tried to smile at her reflection, but even her reflection knew it wasn’t genuine.

There was something satisfying to be said about the act of washing her face at night before bed. It wasn’t the massaging of her tired facial muscles, or the warmth of the water soothing away the stress of the day. It was the instant gratification of witnessing something change from complex and guarded, to simple within a matter of a few seconds. With just a few wipes of her fingertips, her facade had retired to a few smears across a damp cloth, leaving her simple self staring back at her in the mirror. 

Dana. 

She tried to smile at her reflection, but even her reflection knew it wasn’t genuine. 

The moisturizer spread across her skin with ease, from hairline to collarbones, the final step in her nightly routine rushed. The mirror seemed to ask more questions, doubt her decisions, all of which she was struggling not to deal with yet. 

The wooden floor felt warmer to her feet than the tile in the bathroom, a welcome feeling as she crossed to her closet. She opened the door and audibly gasped at the barren space, momentarily forgetting that she hadn’t brought everything with her when she left. A few outfits hung to the left, four pairs of shoes underneath. It’s difficult to figure out what to pack when you’re unsure if your exit is temporary or permanent. Necessities or everything? A few weeks or from now on?

She shrugged off her new bathrobe, which was still slightly stiff no matter how many times she washed it, and hung it to the right, an attempt to fill the void. It just needs to be broken in, she thought to herself. That was becoming the theme with nearly every aspect of her life. Her bathrobe, her sheets, her apartment, her heart. So many things that needed to be broken in before they felt comfortable, like they were hers.

The down blanket engulfed her, swallowing her whole into the nest of faux comfort, as she pulled it up to her chin. Her hand snaked under the pillows, searching. Relief rushed through her body as her fingertips made contact with the soft material of his Knicks t-shirt. He had to have noticed that it was missing by now. At least, she hoped he had. She gently pressed it against her face, nuzzling the softness of the worn material. His scent still lingered in the gray threads, 8 days later. 

She was no stranger to this situation, as she’d been here before. Years ago after he’d gone missing in Bellefleur, and she’d been left to pick up the pieces, alone and pregnant. She would leave work early sometimes when the feelings of desperation and yearning became too overwhelming, and crawl into his bed with one of his shirts. Burying her sorrows in his belongings and his scent.

The tears she tried hopelessly to keep at bay slid to the collar of his Knicks shirt as she remembered the sleepless nights when her mind refused to quiet. The 2am drives to Alexandria, when the roads were wide open and empty. Being greeted by stale air and deafening silence as she walked through the door. Feeding his fish because she was convinced that if they lived, then he would as well. He had to. Crawling into his bed, the sheets shockingly cold to the touch. Such a stark difference from just months before when they were warmed by their body heat from making love. Praying to God through gritted teeth with such conviction as she gripped his shirt, begging for His mercy through muffled cries. Bargaining whatever she had to give, if she could just have him back.

The difference was that this time there would be no call saying he’d been returned. She purposely left her phone in her purse, knowing if her phone rang that it wouldn’t be his name on the screen. This time he was able to come back to her, but he made no effort to find his way.

“Oh, God,” she muttered, a sob breaking free of her chest. The all-too-familiar smoldering ache surrounded her heart, spreading throughout her body like acid through her veins. He swore she wouldn’t have to go through this again. Not for another 40 years, at least, Scully, he’d promised. His body may still be present, but everything that she’d fallen in love with had disappeared months ago. He’d lied. 

“I couldn’t,” she started, but another sob wracked her body, cutting off the words that sat at the tip of her tongue. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the t-shirt tightly, her knees pulled to her chest. Pillows surrounded her face, smothering her escalating whimpers. She roughly rolled onto her back, her hands balled into fists.

“I couldn’t save you this time,” she whined into the darkness. Her hand grabbed a hold of the nearest pillow, and threw it forcefully across the room. “But I couldn’t drown with you either!”

Her chest heaved, and the delicate skin around her eyes felt raw. Concentrating on the burning from the salt of her tears, she relished in the physical pain, inviting it in. 

Exhaustion finally swept over her as her wails had faded to hiccups, her muscles heavy. A low groan escaped her lips as she curled over to her side, his t-shirt snug against her breasts.


End file.
